Home for Christmas
by 00Geeky00 00Goggles00
Summary: John and Sherlock get one Christmas together and don't want to live without it. This turns dark very quickly. *Possible/Probable Trigger Warning*


**I wrote this on Google+ with master of feels, Tree Koi Prince. The sweater and fluff were inspired by a tumblr pic. I don't own Sherlock. If I did it would probably be Johnlock trash... _obvious_ Johnlock trash.**

John nervously bit his lip as Sherlock inspected his present, trying to guess what it was. It was Christmas night on Baker Street and the quaint apartment of 221B was thoroughly decked for the holidays. Mrs. Hudson had made sure of that. Golden-white fairy lights trimmed the walls and a Christmas tree was set up in between the two windows. The garland sparkled and everyone had brought ornaments. Mrs. Hudson even lent out a few of her antiques. The annual Christmas party had just ended and Lestrade soon said his last (slightly tipsy) goodbyes. Good thing they'd called a cab. The two tenants of the apartment decided they would share their gifts last. Sherlock shook the box one last time and sat back on the floor, cross-legged.

"Well," Sherlock stated.

"Well what?"

"I've determined something." He said proudly. John pinched the bridge of his nose in slight frustration, sitting back on his haunches in front of his brunette...friend (?).

"Determined what?"

"This is a fair sized box and not to heavy, so whatever is in here isn't too dense. Also it's cardboard," Sherlock prattled, rapping his knuckles on the box. "but it's not thick cardboard so that is rather indicative of clothing. Considering the time of year it would be clothing made for cold climates, as per practicality. The object obviously takes up most or all of the box and is probably soft since it didn't rattle around in there...unless...oh dear goodness John, please tell me you didn't get me another ear hat! What is the point of-"

"Sherlock!" John interjected, stopping the detective's tirade. He sighted and wore a slightly tired smile. "Just open the box."

The taller man huffed indignantly, but did as he was told.

John had to hold in a snicker as Sherlock slowly peeled down the shiny red wrapping paper, obviously suspicious of it's contents. He had a look of intense concentration.

"You- *snicker*-, you know you look ridiculous right?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock retorted, carefully removing the rest of the paper. John clutched a hand to his mouth to keep from laughing. The brunette finally finished unwrapping the simple white box and opened it carefully.

Inside was a fluffy wool jumper, not unlike John's current one. I was simply red with white, zig-zag trim around the sleeves and collar. Snowflakes were sporadically sewn in; one here, one there, and some over there. Sherlock simply looked at the garment with a dry expression.

"Why did you get me a jumper? I don't need a jumper, I have a coat."

"No, you're always cold. You shake like an anxious puppy with just the thin robe on. You don't have to wear it out, but wear it around so you don't freeze to death will you?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes, making John think of a rather temperamental teenager. The brunette decided to try on the piece of clothing to see if it fit (and to make John happy). He pulled off the robe he'd changed into after the party, and slipped on the new sweater. It was surprisingly soft and comfortable. He crossed his arms over his chest, almost imperceptibly snuggling into it. He found that it really was warm. His only criticism was that it was a size too big.

"It's too big."

"Wear it anyway. You look fine and you can't do the whole thing where you turn up the collar on everything to look cool with your blue eyes and Mr. I-can-cut-diamonds-with-my-cheekbones. So..ha."

John had to look away. He'd just narrowly missed calling his... best friend, cute. He was though, with the way the jumper hung off him and the way he snuggled into it just a bit. Sherlock spoke again.

"It is rather warm though. I-... I appreciate it, John. Thank you."

The consulting detective crawled over to his... friend, and wrapped him arms around his shoulders in a lanky (and slightly awkward) hug. The blond man froze for a second at the unexpected contact, but gladly accepted it and hugged Sherlock back.

"Ah, and I purchased a gift for you as well." Sherlock said, breaking the contact. Both of them missed it a little. Sherlock reached for a gift that was wrapped in green and white striped paper. It was small and seemed simple enough. John tore the wrapping, quickly getting to the present inside. Sherlock's eye gave a minor twitch but he said nothing.

It was a small, light brown, hedgehog plush.

The army doctor stared at the small gift in his hands. It _was_ rather adorable, there wasn't any denying that. But...

"Sherlock...?"

"Hm?"

"Why'd you get me a... a hedgehog plush?"

Sherlock shrugged (which looked odd for him). "I'm not quite sure myself. It reminded me of you somehow, though I'm not privy as to why."

And with that Sherlock got up and took to his room, leaving John near the tree and mildly confused. He looked at the hedgehog plush in his hands a bit more before hugging it to his chest and snuggling into it and his slightly-too-big jumper a little bit. He squeezed it lightly and enjoyed the feeling of the fabric beneath his fingers.

* * *

A few months later, Sherlock would fall.

A year later, John would die.

Two years later, Sherlock would join him.

* * *

It was December 24th. John had been (foolishly, he thought) hoping for a miracle. That Sherlock wasn't dead. It didn't happen. He wasn't going to spend the rest of his life alone and bored. That wasn't living anyway. That was just dying slowly. Sherlock was exciting. He kept him on his toes. He was annoying, but in his own strange way he cared. They'd fallen into such a comfortable rhythm with each other, John swore he could still hear other footsteps around him but no; he was alone. The detective had saved John so many times and for what? To die himself? No, John wasn't going to stay here if he were just miserable all the time. He wasn't just grieving.

His heart was shattered.

John was bone-tired of life and just couldn't keep going. It wasn't worth it. He needed sleep: permanently.

"Christmas is about family and love right?" He spat bitterly, staring thousands of miles into the distance. Last year's Christmas seemed to pass through his mind and play in front of him, taunting him with what could've been. It hurt to see and feel everything that might've happened. If only, if only. A bitter smiled slapped across John's face, breaking his normally soft (nowadays tired and heartbroken) look. The gun was heavy and cold in his hands. It wasn't judging him, it would kill him without any guilt or malice. It was just something else that happened with it, another job to be done. A pang of regret for Mrs. Hudson passed through his mind. It was soon gone; crowded away by the hope of seeing Sherlock again.

"I'm not spending another year alone. Sorry Mrs. Hudson, but I'm joining my love, MY family, for Chrismas. Stay there Sherlock I'm coming home."

The sound of metal meeting bone was hung heavily in the air as John lay back down, needing to move no longer.

* * *

Sherlock came back two months later to find that John had died. Sherlock was afraid there was an audible crack as his heart split in half. He threw himself at his work, trying to forget anything to do with John. It didn't matter if the case was a dead end and he knew it, the man just wanted some sort of distraction. Sherlock wouldn't eat or speak for days. Oh he caught criminals just fine. In fact, he wished there were more of them. He needed the money: his highs were getting more expensive. He solved cases, and reverted back to a drug addicted shell. The detective was possibly worse off than he was when John came into his life. He became more reckless, more flippant with his own safety. It went on for almost a year.

He didn't care. It wasn't important anymore.

In mid-December, Lestrade pulled him aside after a criminal nearly strangled him. He hadn't fought back.

"What the hell, Sherlock? Are you trying to get yourself killed?!" We need you: here!"  
Sherlock looked back at him with something like grief or longing clouding his eyes. Tears? No, they couldn't be. The rest of his face held no emotion.  
"I like to think of it more like an act of love, but yes. In your terms, I would like to die. Now please, do go do your job Detective Inspector. I will see to it that I do what needs to be done." He said with well-faked flippancy. The detective stormed away and into the night, disappearing for the last time. Greg gained a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock lasted two days after that. Two days to have the worst time of his life before ending it all. Worse than the day he visited John's grave for the first time, worse than the abandonment of the few days he had left, because he just couldn't seem to die.

He remembered the rush of the wind through his hair as he jumped, he remembered hearing John's cry. His name was the last thing the man had ever said to him. Or at least, that's all he had made out. Too much commotion caused him to miss the rest of the sentence...  
all of three words that he could only hope were 'I love you,'. If only he had known.

Every few minutes, a few more pills, another injection or two, he wasn't even sure if he was awake or dreaming, he knew Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend- bless her, the only one yet to abandon him. Not like she had much of a choice in the matter, but even she wasn't there anymore...gone, gone. They all left, and Sherlock couldn't blame them.

He stared at his own shaking hand, covered with needle pricks through heavy eyes, red and swollen, and not just from crying this time. He wondered why he'd let himself gain such a high tolerance for such substances. To ease the pain? To continue to live what life? For cases? That hadn't mattered since they day he found out. Not really.

Nothing really mattered.

His body felt numb, and yet every thought hurt. He closed his eyes and welcomed stillness and yet some period of time later there he was, still alive. In a world where no one cared, and he cared for no one. People didn't mean anything. His thoughts didn't mean anything. He didn't mean anything.

All he wanted was John.

And as he lay still, and stared out at nothing, wanting to see nothing, he held John's sweater a little closer to his face, took one shuddery breath as his consciousness began to spiral into nothing, and he new he was fading, and smiled at the world which had taken everything from him. Finally happy, to know he was so close to being reunited to the one and only who had kept him right.

Mrs. Hudson found him two days later. His arm was tied off and hypodermic needles lay neatly arranged across his bed. One of John's old jumpers was clutched tenaciously in Sherlock's clammy, dead hands. A scrawled note lay beneath his wrist along with a simple silver ring:

"My regrets Mrs. Hudson. Don't worry John; I'll be home for Christmas. I've even brought a gift."

 **Don't kill me please. ^_^' Rate and review my lovelies!**


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